


Over the Hill

by lamardeuse



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-04
Updated: 2010-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and the Forty Flamingos of Doom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 3x14 "Tao of Rodney" and 3x15 "The Game"

John knew it was going to be a bad day when the flamingos showed up at his door.

The Forty Fake Flamingos of Doom had originally been created for Doctor Vogel’s fortieth, back on their first year when they were still cut off from Earth. Some of the botanists had gone to the mainland and found these pink reedlike plants, which (with the help of a little wire from the Marines) they had subsequently woven into forty of the most hideously malformed flamingos anyone had ever seen. But ever since, they’d been used to celebrate the milestone birthday of anyone unlucky enough to announce the day was forthcoming.

John had never told anyone about his birthday. He was guessing McKay must have hacked into his personnel file.

The flamingos were getting a little shopworn these days, but they still proudly sagged and drooped in the corridor outside his quarters, a faded pink minefield strewn in the path of anyone who tried to walk by. Nobody seemed to mind, though; on the contrary, they were all grinning hugely and murmuring congratulations to John as he stood there like a doof staring at the flamingos.

Eventually, he went back inside, briefly contemplated jumping off the balcony, then checked his hair in the mirror again before squaring his shoulders and facing the day.

Really, today was going to suck.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
He’d never really cared about getting older, nor had he ever been particularly narcissistic, but recently he’d been catching himself staring in the mirror, inspecting his ears for telltale growths of hair or on the lookout for signs of excessively bushy eyebrows. It annoyed him to think he was going to turn into one of those guys who eventually decided botox would be a good idea, but suddenly he couldn’t stand to think of himself dying of old age.

Maybe because in some ways, he already had.  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

McKay’s smug smile at the meeting was all the confirmation John needed; he was torn between smacking Rodney upside the head and doing something truly inappropriate involving lots of tongue, just to get his reaction. That was another thing that had been happening a lot lately, and he wasn’t in the mood to analyze it either; fine, after three years he’d decided he wanted to jump Rodney’s bones, so what? Happened all the time.

When McKay sidled up to him after the meeting and grinned at him, John bared his teeth. “I’d like to give you a bird, too, McKay,” he said, _sotto voce._

“My pleasure, Colonel,” McKay said sweetly. Too sweetly; John’s eyes narrowed.

“Okay, what else have you got stashed up your sleeve?” he demanded.

Rodney’s eyebrows climbed. “Why, you don’t think I’ve got an elaborate surprise birthday celebration planned, do you?”

John groaned and hung his head. As McKay, still grinning, sauntered out the door, John did not flash the finger at his retreating (and annoyingly firm and heart-shaped) ass. But he came _this _close.  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
By the time he was asked to blow out the candles on the cake, John was on his third beer. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd downed three beers in rapid succession, but he knew now there was a reason why he didn’t drink very much.

There was a lot of good-humoured catcalling when he missed the last five candles, and John knew it was good-humoured, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to push his balled fists right through the cake. He ended up finishing them off and smiling at the assembled crowd, then suffering through the ceremonial cutting of the first piece of cake, which he handed to Rodney along with the knife. He was proud of himself for proffering the handle end first.

Unfortunately, the next person he wandered into was Elizabeth, who was watching the scene with a look of serene approval on her face. “You have a great many people who care about you, John,” she said, smiling out at the assembled crowd.

John leaned back against the wall and tipped the last of the third beer down his throat. “I guess so,” he murmured. “It’s a good excuse for a party, anyway.”

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow, but refrained from comment. After a minute of listening to the second go-round of _Footloose_, John pushed away from the wall and said, “Look, would you mind making my excuses? I’ve got a lot to do to get ready for the mission tomorrow.”

It was a bald-faced lie and she knew it; he was always ready for away missions a good twenty-four hours in advance. Elizabeth cocked her head, and he could feel the lecture coming, the one about the brave public face of command and the sacrifices one must make for the common good, et al, ad nauseam. “John, I – ”

“Elizabeth. Please.” He couldn’t say any more than that, couldn’t tell her that he knew what it felt like to be ninety, and that it seemed about a heartbeat away. He’d never feared death, but this gradual and inevitable slide down a perfectly smooth slope, with nothing and no one to hold onto, scared the shit out of him.

Maybe he did look as old as he felt in that moment, because her expression softened, changed, yielded. “Sure,” she said easily. “After all, the first rule of birthdays is that the birthday boy always gets his wish.” Taking a step forward, she took his hand and squeezed it briefly. “Happy birthday, John.”

John had the presence of mind to squeeze back before he let go, fleeing the room with all the grace of a sixteen-year-old at his first kegger.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“You’re not having a midlife crisis, are you?”

John resisted the urge to bash his head against the doorframe as Rodney barrelled past him into his quarters, carrying a large gift-wrapped box under his arm. “Because if you’re having a midlife crisis,” McKay continued, “I claim no responsibility.”

“Good. Fine. Thanks.” John folded his arms. “Was that all?”

“No,” Rodney said, taking a step toward him. “Is this about the funeral?”

John blinked at him. “What?”

Rodney waved a hand. “Asking you to – you know, when I thought I was – ”

John’s heart flipped in his chest. “No, that’s not – ”

“Because it occurred to me that that was a little forward of me to ask you to do that, because it’s not something you would ask of a friend, normally, more of a – a family member, or a – a spouse, not that I think you’re, but since I don’t have one, a spouse, I mean, I naturally thought of you.”

John blinked at him again. It was his only possible reaction, because his brain was trying to go in six different directions at once, and thanks to the beer, five of them hurt. Now that he thought about it, though, it hit him that he had started having those inappropriate feelings for Rodney right around that time. Had Rodney picked up on them and unconsciously fed into them?

Or was Rodney – consciously or unconsciously – feeling the same thing?

“And in the same vein,” Rodney continued, still stuck in babble mode, “I took it upon myself to plan this party, and maybe I really shouldn’t have, because you didn’t seem to enjoy it all that much, but I have as my defense that my heart was in the right place, and neither Teyla’s nor Ronon’s culture is all that big on birthdays, and – well, I got you a PS3,” he finished, brandishing the box.

John stared at him; there was a considerable lag in his speech recognition centre due to alcohol. “You got me a PlayStation 3?” he asked, finally.

The box drooped slightly. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, it’s great,” John said, snatching the box from his hands before it fell. “Aren’t those really hard to get?”

Rodney’s chin lifted. “I have my sources.”

“Rodney, you’re in another fucking _galaxy_.”

“Really, really good sources.”

John sat on the bed with his box and ripped the wrapping off. Holy shit, there were six games with it. He looked up at Rodney, searching his face. Rodney shrugged. “I, uh, I know it’s not the same as the one we were playing, but it’s bound to be safer.”

John rose to his feet, the unsteadiness having very little to do with the beer. He walked right up to McKay, leaving about a half inch between their bodies. “You think?” he asked, suddenly confident in the swell of blood in his veins, the even, steady rhythm of his heart. The space of time between his measured breaths seemed to lengthen.

Rodney’s tongue darted out to lick his lips nervously. “So, you, ah, you like it, then?”

John fisted a hand in Rodney’s shirt to keep himself from falling as he leaned in, because he’d just gotten his answer. In Rodney’s world, a Playstation 3 was as good as a declaration of love. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his lips against Rodney’s damp ones, feeling them cling briefly, feeling the cool rush accompanying Rodney’s sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, God, you’d better not be flipping me the bird,” Rodney slurred, fingers digging into John’s hips.

John thought about sex and laughter and playing Resistance and Grand Turismo and Madden NFL until their eyes fell out of their heads. Having this wouldn’t keep him young, but it would make the journey a hell of a lot more fun. And like he’d tried to tell Rodney – and had forgotten himself for a while – it was all about the journey.

“Shut up,” he said, grinning like a kid into Rodney’s open mouth, “don’t you know the birthday boy always gets his wish?”

**Author's Note:**

> First published January 2007.


End file.
